Against the Odds
by JayRain
Summary: "I don't know what's going to happen to you, Sergeant Barnes," the little man says. "That's why we call it an experiment." Bucky never expected to survive the war. Somehow, he keeps beating the odds stacked against him. But then he starts changing: small, subtle changes only he can notice, but they're there and he's not sure what to make of it, and even more, if he should worry.
1. This is How the World Ends

_Author's Note: Originally the chapters of this story were going to be entries into "A Thousand Scattered Pages". But upon considering it, I realized that this progression would make more sense if told in order as one companion story. Thanks to ScarletDeva for the ideas that took hold and percolated and became this._

* * *

 _Chapter 1: This is How the World Ends_

When Bucky thought about Italy, he pictured Rome: the Colosseum, the Sistine Chapel, the aqueducts. He thought about pasta and fresh bread and red wine and pretty Italian girls with big dark eyes and lilting language he couldn't understand, but would enjoy anyway. He didn't picture bleak brown mountains and countryside scarred with trenches and pockmarked by mortar. He didn't think about blood-soaked soil and screaming, dying troops. American, English, Italian, German, all sound the same as they lay dying: gurgling screams and wordless groans and sobs and whimpers.

The 107th is one of the bigger battalions, and they've been joined by other units from other Allies. Every push they make, the Nazis push back harder. They're being picked off slowly in a battle of attrition. They're losing. Bucky was pretty sure he would die in Europe. The odds were never in his favor for survival, he knew that coming in, but it's still not easy to make peace with the fact.

The Axis forces push harder into the Italian countryside, crushing dead bodies-and live ones. They gun down anyone in their path-and those off the path. By the light of muzzle flash in the night, Bucky considers writing a letter home to his family. _I had them on the ropes,_ he begins in his mind.

By cold daybreak they're all ready for the inevitable. Weary, knock-kneed with bloodshot eyes, they grab their guns and stuff their helmets on their heads. Bucky wonders if Connie would recognize her Sergeant now: gaunt face smudged with dirt and ash and blood; eyes hollow; hair greasy and askew. He slings his sniper rifle over his shoulder and picks up his automatic. If he's going down, it's fighting the enemy head on, not perched in the trees or hillsides.

The _rat tat tat tat_ of gunfire is white noise to him at this point. His friends fall with strangled screams. Curses fly through the air, louder than bullets. They're being pushed back and soon there will be nowhere left to go but into the darkness. No, he'll go down fighting. That's what he told Steve. Even if it always ends in a fight, keep fighting. He grits his teeth and squeezes the trigger and mows down two Nazis bearing down on him. He keeps holding the trigger, letting out a fierce, animal howl as he shoots the enemy: guys his age, fighting for what they believe in, same as him. What makes him any more right than they think they are?

He fires until his clip is empty and then dives into a trench when he realizes he's out of ammo. His heart beats hard and he spits dirt out of this mouth and winces at the pain in his shoulder. He's got nothing, no spare clips or even loose bullets. The only one in the trench with him is Godfrey, the guy from North Dakota, or maybe it's south, doesn't matter anymore, because Godfrey is dead, riddled with bullet holes.

Bucky's hands tremble as he searches the body for ammunition. He's shaking all over as Godfrey's empty brown eyes stare him down. He does _not_ want to die, but he needs to accept that he, too, will be like Godfrey: dead in this ditch in nowhere, Italy.

And then it's quiet. So quiet he can hear his heart pounding against his sternum, hear his blood pulsing through his veins. He takes a deep breath and clutches his tags. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 107th. Son. Brother. Friend. He feels tears streak down through the grime covering his face and a whine catches in his throat.

This is how the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper.

But then there is the bang and it is loud and he closes his eyes and tries not to choke on the mud as he lies face down in the ditch to protect himself from the firestorm overhead.

When all is silence but for the crackling of the burning tree skeletons, he dares to look up. The fields are littered with Nazi bodies. He's shaky as he climbs out of the trench, and soaked through from the mud; or maybe he pissed himself, he can't even be ashamed of the possibility he's just so thrilled to be alive. Other guys are doing the same thing, popping up to get a good look at their saviors, too wary to cheer just yet.

The tank that fired on the Nazis is huge, bigger than anything either side has and Bucky knows the cold feeling in his gut isn't fear. It's despair. The soldiers that come out of the tank and onto the field aren't wearing the twisted cross of the Nazis, nor the symbols of the Allies. They are a new contender, well armed with weaponry Bucky's never seen before. They shout across the quiet field: orders, by the tone of it. They begin to round up the survivors. Those that resist are shot by a pulse of blue light energy that disintegrates them on the spot.

Bucky drops his gun.

He lets them take him.

He's too tired to resist and if he's going to die, he'd rather just die than be simply… unmade.

They stagger on for days and nights that blend together in flashes of fire and blue energy. They don't speak; they're too tired, too scared. Some drop dead along the muddy roads. If there is a God, Bucky wonders what he did to piss him off. No, the odds were never very good of him surviving Europe, so why does he keep beating them, unless by some sadistic cosmic game?

He barely realizes it when the thick metal gates clang shut behind him. Barely feels it when an armored guard, wearing a red octopus armband, jabs a bayonet into his spine, forcing him into a holding cage with nearly a dozen other dirty, tired men. All he knows is he can stop marching, lie down, and hope for the world to end.


	2. Odds of Survival

_Chapter 2: Odds of Survival_

There's never enough food and he's always thirsty, but never enough to just keel over and die already. The factory floor is loud and they're manufacturing metal parts for something big. They work from the time the bars are rattled in the morning, until the Hydra soldiers round them up and herd them back into their cells at night, with only a short break to have just enough provisions to stay alive.

Every night Dum Dum is the last in the cell and turns to the guard. "One day, Fritz, I'm gonna have a stick of my own," he says with a grin that curls his mustache. The guard thinks he's safe behind bars. But they're all bitter and angry and not yet defeated, even though every day that goes by without rescue makes it harder to keep up hope.

"Why do you even bother telling him that?" Bucky asks Dum Dum. He leans against the bars; the metal digs into his spine. He rubs his arms; it's cold here, too. They might be somewhere in the mountains. He wasn't paying too much attention during the forced march.

"If I can't convince them that we're gonna get our asses out of here, how am I going to convince myself?" Dum Dum asks. He sits next to Bucky and fishes out a scrap of sharp, hard metal. He digs it into the concrete floor and etches one line. It's the most recent in a series of such gashes. He's counting days. Days that he's kept grinning and taunting Fritz. Days the Allies haven't come for them.

"You really think the Allies are coming for us, Dum Dum?" Bucky asks. He used to be hopeful. Now he's just cynical. He's seen so much death in such a short period of time. "If we want out, we're going to have to do it on our own."

"You proposing an escape attempt?" Gabe asks, scooting over. He leans forward, voice low. "We don't exactly know our way around the facility enough to manage that."

Now everyone is looking at Bucky: his fellow comrades from the 107th, and the other Allies Hydra rounded up in Azzano and along the way. "I was just… just saying. No one knows we're even here, and if they do, they'll have seen what happened at our position in Italy. The only way we're getting out is if we win the war. Or if we break out on our own. And I'm not volunteering to lead that charge," he says with a grim chuckle.

Dum Dum claps his shoulder. "C'mon Sarge, thought you Brooklyn boys had more guts than that."

"I like my guts inside of me, if it's all the same to you." Bucky smiles and closes his eyes and tries to sleep, and hopes that Dum Dum will put the idea out of his head. They're not really serious about escaping, they can't be; it's just something else to keep them hopeful in this neverending purgatory.

He wakes to the clang of metal on metal and a pounding headache from the lack of water and food. He's stiff from sleeping upright and sitting on the concrete. He drags himself over to his position, barely aware of the Hydra guards watching him. They're always watching. He doesn't even feel their eyes on him anymore. He just wants to get through the day, a day he measures by the thrumming of machinery and the amount of times he nearly keels over from exhaustion.

"Just going to stand there staring at me?" Bucky asks the Hydra officer who approaches and stands next to him. Colonel Lohmer, the other Hydra soldiers call him. Bucky and his mates call him Asshole. He's reasonably sure Lohmer doesn't speak English; all he hears around him all day is German, and the only word he really gets out of any of it is "Hydra". Because they couldn't keep it simple and all be Nazis.

"Herr Barnes," Lohmer says with a cold grin that makes Bucky's skin crawl. He keeps his eyes focused on the manufacturing machine in front of him. Push the sheet of metal in; pull the lever; push the sheet out and down the belt. Repeat ad infinitum and ad nauseum. "Perhaps you do not realize we are on a schedule?"

"I'll work faster if you get outta my face." Bucky shouldn't taunt the enemy but he's tired. They want him to work, they should let him work. Though now, knowing that the man speaks English makes him feel even sicker to his stomach.

"Or perhaps you think by working more slowly you can plot your escape attempt."

"I'm not getting out of here and we both know it," Bucky mutters. Dum Dum may be able to hope. Gabe may be able to hope. Bucky has always been smart, and knows how to calculate the odds. Steve has better odds of winning a boxing match than Bucky does of getting out of here.

"Yes, I do," Lohmer says.

Bucky reaches for another sheet of metal and then the machine is coming at his face and fireworks go off in his brain as Lohmer slams him into the machine. Bucky tastes blood-metallic and salty-and he staggers backward, blinking as he tries to get his footing. The room is too loud, spinning too fast, and as much as he tries to get his guard up, he's too dizzy and too weak to do much more than a sad attempt at a block when Lohmer comes at him again.

"You'll kill him!" Dum Dum yells, rushing over from his post, only to be caught by a nameless, faceless Hydra soldier who holds him back while Lohmer takes a hard swing at Bucky. He catches him in the jaw and Bucky can't keep his balance. He falls to the floor. He sees the cavernous ceilings. He tastes the blood, rolls over onto his stomach and tries to push himself up, but Lohmer is there kicking him in the gut.

"So I shall. That is what happens when your work is unacceptable. But this is Hydra, Herr American," Lohmer says. He grabs Bucky by the back of his collar; his shirt tears and chokes him. The Colonel wheels around and slams Bucky up against a piece of machinery. The impact knocks the air out of him. He struggles to get a breath in through the pain blossoming in his torso like wildfire. He crumples to the ground, blood dripping from his mouth and nose. "Cut off one head, two more shall spring up. And nobody will miss the weak head."

Lohmer gives Bucky one more kick to the ribs. Bucky chokes and gasps and he sees stars. His shaking hands scrabble at the cold floor and he tries to push himself up, but Lohmer drops his foot into his spine, slamming him back to the floor. Bucky hears the whine of one of the Hydra weapons charging and he can't see but he knows Lohmer's going to dissolve his head right then and there and he needs to be okay with this, because he was never going to survive Europe in the first place.

The nothingness never comes. He keeps feeling the pain and the panicky discomfort of being unable to get a full breath. "Colonel Lohmer, perhaps this one has not entirely served his purpose, yes?" a soft voice asks. The pressure lifts from his back. Lohmer's boots are now next to his head. Not exactly comforting. "I have run short of my own… equipment," the voice says. "If you would be so kind, you may have him sent to isolation, yes?"

Lohmer grunts. Bucky isn't sure if he should sob with relief or scream in anger. Two Hydra soldiers haul him up under his shoulders, one on each side, and drag him toward the darkness. The odds of survival were never in his favor, but somehow, he keeps surviving. The longer he lives, the more he wonders if it's worth it.


	3. The End is the Beginning

_Chapter 3: The End Is the Beginning_

He's not sure how long he drifts in and out of consciousness. All he knows is no one is yelling at him, no bars are clanging, no machines are roaring. It's… quiet. Bucky doesn't remember the last time he heard quiet. Even Brooklyn was never this quiet; the streets were always busy with the sounds of cars, the clatter of shoes on pavement, and the muted conversations of people. The last thing he remembers is watching the gray floor streak by as two guys dragged him off the workfloor. He still hurts; Lohmer didn't exactly hold back.

Finally he managed to keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds and manages to hear more than just the silence. He can't sit up, but he's not sure he wants to, anyway. His stomach twists and heaves if he tries to move. He's flat on his back and there's some padding underneath, and the ceiling overhead is lower than back on the workfloor or in the cells.

He can hear the scratching of a pencil from nearby, and not too far away another man is whimpering and retching. Bucky swallows the sour lump in his own throat. Was this how Steve felt most of the time? Bruised, battered, wondering if he could have done more, fought harder…

The other guy screams, shattering the quiet and Bucky can't help but try to look. But he's held down by buckles and straps and suddenly not being able to move or see what's happening scares him shitless. The guy won't stop screaming, begging for someone to _stop, stop, stop,_ and then the words dissolve into unintelligible sobs and choking noises. He bites on his lip, hard, to keep from calling out. Whatever is making that guy make those noises? Bucky doesn't want to get that thing's attention.

He remembers being absolutely still in the trees and hillsides, holding his breath and scanning with his sniper rifle. He does that now, trying to maintain calm, and trying not to envision what's happening to the other guy. _Stop calculating the odds, Buck. You know that even your best guess will be wrong, the way your luck's going._

So he closes his eyes and tries to remember Brooklyn and Coney Island and the Cyclone, and boxing with Steve and going easy on him even when Steve insisted that Bucky give him all he's got. The sobs fade to whimpers, then ragged gasps.

Then the silence again.

Someone swears in German and it's soft and almost sad. Disappointed. A murmured order and then Bucky hears footfalls and the clatter of wheels and metal and his heart pounds because somehow he knows that the voice is coming for him.

This is the end he's been waiting for ever since setting foot on that boat a year ago.

"And how are we feeling today, Sergeant Barnes?" the deceptively mild-mannered voice asks him, and Bucky dares to crack open an eye. The man hovering over him has a round face and snub nose and he squints down at Bucky through thick, round glasses. Bucky doesn't answer. He flexes his arms and the straps bite into him. Even if he did free himself, what would he do? "I see." The little man scratches something in a file. Then he smiles and Bucky cringes in spite of himself. "It would appear you've arrived just in time. My last subject… well. You heard that."

"Is that what's going to happen to me?" Bucky asks. He doesn't want to talk to this man, to give him the satisfaction. But the screams are still echoing in his ears and he'd be bullshitting himself if he wasn't afraid. At least on the work floor, getting his ass kicked by Lohmer, he knew what to expect.

"I don't know _what's_ going to happen to you, Sergeant Barnes," the little man says with a grin. "That's why we call it an experiment." He sets down his file and then he's shining a bright light in Bucky's eyes, measuring his arms and legs, and all Bucky can do is lay there, staring at the dingy ceiling and hoping it will all be over with. There's more pencil scratching, and then the little man pushes Bucky's sleeve up. Out of the corner of his eye Bucky sees the light glinting off a long needle and his stomach turns. "Just a pinch," he says.

The needle stabs into his arm and Bucky feels dizzy, even lying down. He's never liked needles. He doesn't know how long the needle is in his arm, or how much blood the little man collects before tying a ragged bandage around his arm.

After that the hours blend together into a horrible monotony. Some mornings he finds himself cuffed to a bed by one wrist; others strapped to a stretcher; still others on a cement floor in a locked latrine, covered in vomit. He doesn't know what the doctor is doing to him. He can see the man making notes and staring at vials of his blood. Then he'll look up over the curved edge of his spectacles and smile and Bucky knows that whatever is good for that guy is bad for him.

One day… night? Day. Who knows. Two bulky Hydra soldiers haul him out of bed and strap him down. The doctor appears overhead and checks his pupils with that damned flashlight. Bucky murmurs his name and tag number over and over again. If he can hear himself, he can remember who he is. That's all he's gotta do, remember who he is. If he's going to die it won't be retching and sobbing with no clue who he is.

Another flash of light on a long silver needle. Bucky clenches his jaw and balls his hands into fists. He holds his breath and the pinch of the needle in his neck does not elicit a scream from him. But then there is pressure and the feeling of fire flowing through his veins, and that makes him scream. His back arches and his ribs coil around his lungs and he's scrabbling at the gurney beneath him, trying to claw his way out. He can't get away from the burning inside of him, or hear over the roar in his ears, or see through the blinding black and white waves.

When he finally comes back to himself, or something like it, he's still strapped down. He trembles all over and cold sweat trickles down his face. But his vision is clear, and though his heart is pounding, he's alive. He almost cries with relief. _Sergeant James Barnes, 32557038. 107th._ He repeats this over and over to ground himself. That is who he is. _Number 32557038, Sergeant James Barnes. Bucky._ He smiles.

"And how are we today, Sergeant?" The little man, who Bucky has overheard being called Zola, asks. He tilts Bucky's head to the side and Bucky clenches his jaw tightly as his skin crawls at the touch. Then Zola's taking his pulse and checking his pupils and listening to his racing heart and Bucky just wants to sink through the floor. Zola smiles and Bucky knows it's never a good thing when that happens.

Two Hydra soldiers undo the straps holding him down. They help him sit up-being relatively gentle, at Zola's urging. The room tilts and spins and he's dizzy from whatever the mad scientist injected him with, as well as little to no food or water for God knows how long. His clothes hang on him, dirty and frayed. One of the soldiers nudges him in the small of the back and Bucky stumbles off the stretcher. He sees the floor coming at him and then someone catches his arm and hauls him to his feet. Being upright feels strange and his legs are wobbly. God, this must be how Steve feels. The thought of Steve helps steel his nerves for whatever's coming. Bucky's here so Steve doesn't have to be. Steve would never have survived this long. Bucky still wonders how he keeps going and why he doesn't just… die already. Why he opens his eyes every morning… or evening… or whenever.

He flops into a chair and Zola's friends begin fastening him down again. He puts up a token resistance but they're efficient; they've done this before, to countless other prisoners too tired or sick to be of any use on the floor. As one guy tightens a strap around his forehead, effectively immobilizing him from head to toe, Bucky wonders how many others came before him, how many got this far. How many will get this far, or farther, after he's gone.

He can't get a good look around him; lots of bulky shadows. Clicking and buzzing electrical noises. Zola attaches something with wires to his head. Bucky won't look at him. He clutches the arms of the chair and repeats his name and number over and over to ground himself. More wires and sensors. _James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky Barnes. 32557038…_

Zola jams a needle in his neck and he grinds his teeth, hard. Suddenly his blood is flowing faster, his heart beating harder, his breath coming quicker. He blinks too fast and the world around him is a rush. He wants to climb out of his own skin. The lights are too bright, the sound too loud. He tries to remember who he is. Tries to remember Bucky, Sergeant Barnes and some numbers. Too much, too much, too much.

Then it's over. He shakes, sweating and teeth chattering as he slumps in the restraints. Zola's smiling. That's never good.

He closes his eyes. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky.

He's got no sense of time or place anymore. He just focuses on remembering who he is amid the injections and sensors and flashes of light and image and sound. Zola keeps smiling. Keeps taking notes. Keeps taking blood. But also starts making sure he's getting proper food and water and even lets him get cleaned up here and there. Bucky's not sure what's real anymore and the kindness makes him wary. He's heard the stories of the Nazis, and while Hydra's not Nazis, they're still the enemy and when an enemy starts treating you well… well then, that's when you need to worry.

Every day is his last, and that's why they feed him: prisoners get a last meal request. Every day is the end, until the next day starts and he has to wonder when it will all be over. Zola seems pleased and that's never good, until the day when Zola looks displeased. Worried. And even then Bucky can't be glad; he thought he would be, but it makes him feel sick. Or maybe that's whatever Zola pumped into him earlier. Either way he stares at the ceiling, mumbling his name and number over and over. _Just remember who you are, Buck, that's all you gotta do. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 3255708…_

And then someone is tearing the straps off of him and helping him off the stretcher, and that someone is Steve? Steve should be in Brooklyn, Steve is…

"I thought you were smaller," Bucky says, blinking hard to clear his vision. "What happened?"

"I joined the army," Steve says, as if that should answer everything, and in that moment, Bucky can't be sure if he's dead, or if he beat the odds yet again.


	4. Boys From Brooklyn

_Chapter 4: Boys from Brooklyn_

Steve is still Steve even if he doesn't look like Steve. He's taller now, even taller than Bucky, and far bulkier. He runs faster and hits harder than he ever could before. Bucky remembers thinking it would take a miracle to make Steve… well, not Steve, and it's still disconcerting to see his best friend in this jacked-up body.

Steve tells him the story as they march across Austria and back toward Italy, pausing every night to rest. It's still grueling and unpleasant, but nothing like the forced march Bucky endured when he was last in Italy. "And you let him pump you full of experimental shit?" Bucky asks Steve incredulously. He still hasn't told Steve what happened to him in the days… weeks… however long before he found him. He's not sure he wants to; his skin crawls whenever he thinks about Zola pawing him and jabbing needles into him.

"It was my chance to get here," Steve says with an offhand shrug.

Bucky glances at the torn up countryside around him, and the huge Hydra tank rolling slowly behind them, stolen during their mad escape from the factory. There are dozens of guys that Steve single-handedly rescued; most of them carry stolen Hydra weaponry, Bucky included. He'd love to get a shot against Zola, or Lohmer, or any Hydra asshole. "Well I hope it's everything you dreamed of. And more," Bucky tells him with a grin.

"All I ever wanted was to serve my country," Steve says, dead serious. "So yeah, it's what I hoped for." Suddenly he stops and flashes a cheeky grin at Bucky. "And I told you not to win the war without me."

"And _I_ told you not to do anything stupid until I got back." But Bucky's smiling and feeling good, really good, for the first time in a long time. "Then you go and show up here."

"And save your backside," Steve points out. In spite of the light bantering tone, they're both serious. Bucky knows his odds of being rescued were low, and the odds of being rescued by Steve are next to nothing. If there's a God, He's the one at work here. If there's fate, this is it. Or maybe the universe just has a wild sense of the ironic.

Either way, Bucky can't deny that having Steve fighting with him feels right, and he realizes just how wrong it felt leaving Brooklyn that morning without Steve by his side. Of course, it does help that now Steve can hold his own in a fight.

"That asshole Lohmer?" Dum Dum tells him one night while they're eating what they could scrounge. "Yeah, he didn't bother anyone after he kicked your ass. I made sure of that," he says with a grin as he puffs on a cigarette from a pack left in the tank. "Couple of the other guys helped. Turns out those machines don't just crunch metal."

"Glad I'm on your good side then," Bucky says with a mock salute.

They march into the Allied camp two days later. Steve leads them and the closer they get to the center of camp, the straighter his spine gets and the stiffer his gait becomes. Bucky can't help but smile and feel a surge of pride. After all those back alley fights in Brooklyn, all those failed attempts to sneak through the system, Steve's finally doing what he was made to do. It's taken Bucky years to see it. All those times he thought he needed to protect Steve, maybe he just wasn't giving Steve the credit he deserved.

Steve stops in front of craggy-faced Colonel Phillips. "I'd like to surrender myself for disciplinary action," he says, staring straight ahead through Phillips. His jaw is tense and his posture rigid, and Bucky recognizes Steve gearing up for a fight that he can't win. It's gotta be habit at this point, even.

"That won't be necessary," Phillips says almost dismissively, like it was ever a question. Steve stays standing still and tall, though Bucky can see the slight twitch in his jaw proving he's trying not to smile.

Everyone else is smiling though, and a slight blush is creeping up Steve's neck. "Let's hear it for Captain America!" Bucky suddenly shouts, clapping Steve hard on the shoulder, and this time he's not afraid that he's going to knock the guy over. Steve's face breaks into an embarrassed smile and he stares at the ground even though everyone else is cheering for him.

There will be time to catch up later. Now, knowing he's safe leaves Bucky feeling his exhaustion. He slips away through the crowds of people trying to get close to Steve to shake his hand, give him a hug, or God knows what else. This is Steve's moment. And it won't be the last. Somehow that fills Bucky with immense pride.

* * *

They head to London a couple days later. Steve has meetings with the SSR people. Bucky meets with an SSR shrink.

"You must be pretty busy debriefing all the guys Hydra held," he tells the guy. He smiles, his crooked side smile that he uses to throw people off guard. "This is just a formality, right?"

"For the most part, yes," the man says, glancing down at his file. All Bucky can think of is the way Zola's pencil scratched on his files, the way he wanted to know what Zola was writing down, but couldn't ever see. "Though your experience was a bit different than most of the others. I was hoping-"

Bucky shakes his head, still smiling. "I got into a fight on the floor, guy kicked my ass and they put me in some kind of infirmary. That's all."

The man raises his eyebrow. "Is it?"

Bucky shrugs. "Yeah, what else would it be?"

"Your fellow POWs suggested that no one ever came back from the isolation ward. And that often, men were worked to death on the floor. Or if they were injured in the line of work, Hydra simply put them down on the spot."

That's the truth. They both know it, the other guys wouldn't lie, nor would they have reason to. "Guess I was lucky for once," Bucky says with another offhand shrug. He grabs his coat and stands before the guy can ask him any more questions. He's just doing his job, so Bucky can't get mad at him. "I'm fine, really," he tells the guy. "Few bruises, nothing a little time couldn't fix. Really." He punctuates this with a nod and then strides out of the office before the shrink can say anything else.

Most of the 107th has gone to the barracks outside of the city, but Bucky and a few of the other guys have been asked to stay nearby. The SSR sets them up in a couple of small flats above a bar. Bucky's got a tiny room to himself. This is fine, because he doesn't want to wake anyone up in the middle of the night when he himself wakes, shaking and breathing hard and looking around in the darkness for needles and vials and straps and buckles. When he shakes his arms out to make certain he's free. When he bites his lip to keep from screaming.

He closes his door and sits on the edge of the bed. He breathes deeply. Everything just needs to _slow the fuck down._ Ever since the mad fiery escape from the Hydra base everything's moved too fast. He sees too much. Hears too much. Feels too jittery. At first he told himself it was the adrenalin, but the more time passes and the more this becomes his new normal, the more he wonders what was in Zola's endless syringes.

He splashes some cold water on his face and rinses out his mouth. He practices his cheeky, "all's well that ends well" grin in the mirror, trying not to flick his eyes at every movement he sees in the reflection. Then he flops into the narrow bed and buries himself under a rough blanket and _makes_ himself keep his eyes closed until he dozes off.


	5. The Right Partner

_Chapter 5: The Right Partner_

Bucky feels better after sleeping- _really_ sleeping, in a bed and everything, with the relative quiet of London just outside his window. The sounds of the city are a lullaby to him and when he wakes, he keeps his eyes closed for a few moments to pretend he's back in Brooklyn. But then he opens his eyes and everything is bright and clear, piercing his brain, and he's in London.

He rummages around and pulls on clean clothes; he has to pull his belt a notch or two tighter than usual. He used to be a middleweight boxing champ back in Brooklyn and now he's getting as scrawny as Steve. Or, as Steve used to be. It's still hard to wrap his mind around the fact that Steve's pretty much doubled in size, and could likely trounce him in a fight if they went at it. The idea makes him grin.

All the other guys are down in the pub. The air is hazy with pungent cigar smoke and someone's banging on the piano, a raucous song that Dum Dum, Falsworth, Gabe, and Jim Morita are belting out. They're already tipsy, empty pint glasses strewn across the table.

"It's the Sarge!" Dum Dum holds up his half-drunk pint in salute. "We're gonna be the craziest team those Hydra sons of bitches ever laid eyes on," he says with a laugh, and the other guys all drink deeply to that.

"Maybe you'll finally find Fritz," Bucky says with a grin. "Show him your big stick." The guys howl with laughter. Bucky heads over to a quieter corner of the pub and orders a scotch. He needs the world to slow down, needs to take the edge off. It doesn't hit him as hard as it should, so he orders another.

"Hey Buck." Steve joins him at the bar and orders a pint. "The guys all just agreed."

Bucky rests an elbow on the bar and looks Steve over carefully. He's filled out, yes; but his eyes are still the eyes of the determined kid he rescued from back alley brawls so often. "What did I tell you?" he asks. "They're all crazy. Of course they agreed."

Steve's cheeks redden slightly. Maybe it's the alcohol. He sips his drink. "So… what about you?" Bucky raises his eyebrows. "Are you ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?"

Bucky can't help but smile at Steve's mock bravado. Steve's wearing a dress uniform now, hair swept neatly off his forehead. His jaw is set and his brows are slightly furrowed. He's trying not to blush. Captain America: it's kind of a ridiculous name when you get down to it. But that's how most of the troops know him; it's who's making the front pages of the papers back home. He's a symbol. Bucky can't follow a symbol.

"Captain America? No," he tells Steve honestly. Steve's forced grin falters and his cheeks get just a little redder. "But that little guy from Brooklyn? The one too stupid to walk away from a fight? I'll follow him."

Steve visibly relaxes and nearly sighs out his relief. Bucky smiles into his scotch glass. Like it was any question? He swore to Steve that he'd be there with him until the end of the line. Not to mention he owes his life to Steve. And now that Steve can hold his own in a fight, he's actually excited about the prospect of kicking Hydra ass with his best friend.

The off-key voices fade off and the piano goes discordant for a moment. Bucky's heart leaps in his chest and he drops his hand to his side, looking for a weapon that isn't there. In his recent experience sudden quiet equates to danger. He hasn't forgotten the firestorm on the field in Italy, nor the permeating silence of Zola's lab. Steve flicks his gaze to his friend and his brows momentarily crease with worry.

Someone in the other room exhales a low whistle. Heels click purposefully on the lacquered floorboards and then it's like poppies blooming in the doorway. He remembers seeing the Wizard of Oz, and what it was like when Dorothy opened the door to the technicolor magic of Oz, and seeing this woman is like seeing a little bit of over the rainbow here in drab, war-torn London.

"Agent Carter," Steve says, getting up off his stool and nodding in greeting. Bucky raises an eyebrow. Steve's back is straight as a board.

"I see your team is off to a good start," she says, lips slightly pursed.

Bucky takes in the curve of her waist, the way her red dress swishes across her shins. He'd love to get her out on the dancefloor, swing her around, feel her hand in his, hear the ripple of her dress over the music. "What's the matter?" he asks, setting down his glass. "You don't like music?" He gives her his best grin, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes just enough to make him look mischievous.

"Oh, I rather enjoy music," Agent Carter says. She turns her intense dark eyes back to Steve. "When this is all over I _may_ even go dancing."

Bucky turns all the force of his sparkling blue-green eyes on her. He shifts on his stool, leaning forward a bit. "Well what are you waiting for?" he asks her, catching the corner of his bottom lip between his teeth.

Agent Carter doesn't even look at him. Not at all. But she hears him because she says, "The right partner." All the while her eyes are trained on Steve. "Eight o'clock sharp," she tells Steve.

"Yes, ma'am," Steve says. He stands at attention as Carter spins on her heel and saunters out of the bar, her dress swinging behind her. She gives Steve a final, over the shoulder glance before she exits into the night.

The music slowly starts back up again. Bucky slumps and shakes his head, holding out his glass for another drink. "I'm invisible," he proclaims, taking a deep swig. He swirls the liquid in the glass and shakes his head. "She didn't even look at me." Steve actually looks embarrassed, but Bucky finds it funny. "I'm turning into you," he says and laughs.

Steve relaxes again and laughs as well. "Don't worry. I'm sure she can find you a friend." He pats Bucky on the back. His hand is heavy and Bucky grunts under the weight of it. Steve bobs his head apologetically, but Bucky just smiles and clinks his glass with Steve's.

* * *

The next days are spent peering at maps of Europe and planning travel routes. Hydra has factories all over the continent, and Steve's elite team is going to hit them hard. Schmidt may be the Red Skull, but he can't be in all places at all times, and they're taking advantage of that. Bucky and the other guys share what they know, which isn't much. They were manufacturing machinery on a gigantic scale. A map in Zola's lab had locations of other such factories. Bucky wonders how many others have been experimented on in those locations.

He thinks about telling Steve. Steve would understand, look at the guy for crying out loud. He's a walking science experiment.

 _So am I_ , Bucky thinks. What will happen to him? No one knows. That's why they call it an experiment.

Steve finds him in the gym, hauling off on a punching bag. With each strike Bucky imagines Schmidt's leering red skull and Zola's round little face with the snub nose and thick glasses. Bucky wipes the sweat off his forehead with his arm and nods to Steve in greeting. "Feel like going a few rounds, like we used to?" he asks when Steve doesn't say anything, just watches him with his brows knitted together thoughtfully.

"You're not afraid I'll hurt you?" Steve asks at last, but he's searching for a pair of gloves that will fit him. "You did take a beating back in Austria…"

"I'm fine," Bucky insists, already climbing into the ring, and it's true. He should still be achy and sore after all the shit Hydra put him through, but he's feeling pretty good. "Besides, I want to see what they did to you."

"A few needles, some bright light, and a lot of confidence in the scrawny kid from Brooklyn," Steve tells him as he joins him in the ring. "Don't hold back, Buck."

"Take your own advice," Bucky tells him with a grin and then they're going at it like they used to back in Brooklyn, bobbing and weaving and striking and blocking. Steve moves fast: faster than he ever could before, and he hits _hard_. The first time he lands a blow Bucky stumbles backward, the air driven out of his lungs. He shakes his head slightly and keeps his footing, feinting a right at Steve, only to go in with a left hook. Steve blocks it easily. His face is that same mask of concentration that it always was when they fought at home. Steve is still Steve, just bigger and faster. He's still the perfect partner in crime.

Steve gets in an uppercut that flattens Bucky on the mat. Bucky stares up at the overhead lights, dazed and breathing hard, but when Steve rushes over to see if he's fine, Bucky springs up and gets a good hit in against Steve's ribs. Steve grunts and doubles over, but Bucky knows better than to take the bait. He goes at him with a right hook and feints at the last moment with a left uppercut, but Steve takes advantage of Bucky's unguarded left side hits him square in the cheek.

Bucky topples over and lands on his face on the mat, heart slapping his sternum and an ache blossoming in his cheek. "Remember how I used to say it'd take a miracle for you to beat me?" he asks, struggling to sit up. Steve offers his hand and Bucky takes it. When Steve pulls him to his feet, Bucky nearly goes flying. "Looks like miracles can happen," he says.

They head back to the pub for another round of drinks and some food. Bucky's ravenous. "Still making up for being half-starved by Hydra," he explains to Steve, who's on his third plate and looks at Bucky with a raised eyebrow.

"The thing is Buck," Steve begins, thoughtfully chewing on his food. "It's not even that _good_."

"Better than the shit rations we were getting, and definitely better than starving," Bucky points out, shoveling a spoonful of bland mashed potatoes in his mouth.

"I didn't give you a shiner, did I?" Steve asks, stacking his empty plate on top of the other two, and dropping his napkin on the table. The bartender visibly sighs in relief that Steve's done eating.

Bucky prods at his cheek. It's tender, but not swollen. "I think I'm good. You may be Captain America, but I'm still Bucky Barnes, Brooklyn middleweight champ." He grins. "Come on. Admit it." Steve looks at him, still so innocent in spite of his increased physique. These moments remind Bucky that his friend is still in there, and he feels a lot better. "You loved having me on the ropes."

Steve smiles and looks down at the table, embarrassed. "Yeah, maybe I did, at least a little. Especially since I know you used to hold back," he adds.

Bucky sighs and leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "You had heart, but I didn't want to hurt you." Steve looks like he's about to say something, but Bucky raises an eyebrow and finally Steve nods his agreement. "So how's it feel to hold your own in a fight?" he asks. "You were always the little guy. I was always saving your ass, or bringing you home after. What's it like to be doing the ass kicking now?"

Steve is quiet for a long time, so long that Bucky wonders if he even heard the question. "I don't like it," Steve finally tells him. "I didn't want this because of some weird vengeance complex." He nods to the bartender, who promptly gets out two pint glasses and starts filling. "It's like I told Erskine, I don't like bullies, no matter what uniform they wear. I'm doing this because it needs to be done, and because Schmidt's the biggest bully of them all."

"The guy's got a bright red skull for a head and all you can say is that he's a big bully?" Bucky asks, incredulous. Then he laughs. "Sometimes I look at you and wonder if you're still Steve, and then you say stuff like that and I _know_ you're the same guy."

Steve smiles. "Thanks, Buck. It actually means a lot to hear that. I don't want to be anyone else. I just wanted to be more effective."

"I think you've got that covered, pal," Bucky tells him, lightly clinking his pint glass against Steve's before taking a deep gulp.

"I'm glad you're coming with me," Steve says.

"Like it was a question?"

Steve grins and raises his glass in a mock toast. "To the end of the line?"

Bucky raises his as well. "To the end of the line."


	6. The Howling Commandos

_Chapter 6: The Howling Commandos_

It's Dum Dum Dugan who gives them their name. When "Craziest Sons of Bitches to Hit Hydra Where It Hurts" doesn't fly over well with Colonel Phillips and the rest of the SSR leadership, they end up as the Howling Commandos. Dum Dum runs into danger headlong, howling like a rabid wolf as he gives every Fritz he can find a hit with his own big stick. Just as he promised.

The name sticks, and Steve's elite infiltration crew are quickly the bane of Hydra and Johann Schmidt. They never hang around long enough for Schmidt to find them, but they know from the increased presence at each new factory they hit that Schmidt is aware of who's behind the attacks.

With every target Bucky hopes that they get Zola. Schmidt is the real target, but he'll settle for taking out the doctor and preventing him from doing more experiments on more unwilling victims. This sense of vengeance worries him though. Steve is a successful lab experiment looking to make good on all that was invested into creating him. Bucky's happy for Steve and he's grateful to be alive, but the strange anger that comes in waves worries him. The occasional need to mow down as many Hydra operatives as he can worries him. _Destroy the target, that's all you need to do, Buck,_ he tells himself, and it takes effort not to take out more enemy soldiers than he has to.

They'll have to deal with Schmidt's wrath. That should make him glad, because that will be far worse than anything he can dispense.

From the base in Greece they move north through enemy territory. Their camps are small and quiet, which is pretty amazing given the group of them. Gabe and Jacques chat quietly in French; sometimes Gabe gets a signal on the radio and they're able to eliminate more Hydra operatives en route in Poland.

Hydra has all but eradicated the Nazi presence along this stretch of road. The day is dreary and gray, and cold. Bucky's breath steams in the air and he's sure it's a dead giveaway as he hides behind a tree along the roadside. His sniper rifle is slung over his shoulder and his blue wool coat isn't quite thick enough to withstand this kind of chill. He grips his assault rifle and holds it to his chest, the metal cold even through his leather gloves.

The air feels like a thick blanket of quiet, the kind that comes right before a snowfall. The first few flakes are drifting down lazily, catching in his eyelashes. He glances to his left. Steve is crouched behind a boulder, shield at the ready. The sound of a deep, purring motor floats on the air and Jim Morita grins as he hefts the explosive bundle in his hand. He crouches low to the ground and scurries to the roadside.

Bucky holds his breath as the engine gets louder. The shadow of a large Hydra vehicle looms and then the engine is a roar and Jim leaps out into the path of the vehicle and lies perfectly still on his back in the middle of the road.

Bucky closes his eyes and listens for the inevitable ba-bump of tires over a body, but instead he hears a low bird whistle and looks to see Jim standing in the middle of the road. He pulls a small transponder out of his pocket and grins. He holds it up for all of them to see before his thumb presses down on the button.

The gray clearing explodes in a fireball.

Another vehicle is closing in and Bucky gears up for the fight. It always ends in a fight. He looks over at Steve. "Ready?" Steve asks. "You know what they say. Cut off one head and two more spring up."

Bucky grins and readies his gun. "Let's find some more heads."

The next Hydra supply truck rumbles down the road and squeals to a halt before slamming into the burning wreckage of the first vehicle. Steve throws his shield at the front grate of the vehicle and the engine sputters and grinds and screams. For an object normally reserved for defense, Steve's pretty good at using it offensively.

Dum Dum howls with glee and leaps out of a tree onto the canvas top of the truck and begins firing down into the back. Several Hydra soldiers scream and jump out only to be taken out by Gabe, Jacques, and Falsworth, who melt out of the trees on the roadside. Steve fights off two Hydra officers: big, bulky guys with the glowing blue guns that can dissolve a person. And a third has limped out of the wreckage of the first vehicle, clothes still smoking. He raises his gun. Steve doesn't see him.

Bucky levels his shotgun at the guy. Time slows down: the crackle of flames is muted in his ears and the snowflakes pause in the air. He strides over to the guy, who turns his weapon on him rather than Steve. Bucky pumps the shotgun, but rather than fire he spins it in his hand and whacks the guy on the side of the head with the butt of the gun. The man falls to the ground. Bucky drops his shotgun. He wedges his toe under the Hydra weapon and flips it into the air and catches it. He points it at the Hydra soldier, who's screaming but it sounds far away like an echo. He squeezes the trigger and a pulse of blue light erupts from the barrel and then the Hydra soldier is no more than dust and a pair of twitching legs in the middle of the road.

"Bucky."

He blinks and shakes his head and then he feels the cold and hears the crackling fire. He looks up. Steve. He looks down. Legs and ash. His stomach turns and he swallows against the bile welling up in his throat.

"Buck, you can drop it now. We got 'em," Steve says in a low voice.

Bucky's knuckles are white where he grips the Hydra weapon. The other guys are looking at him with a mix of fear and awe. He throws the gun on the ground and wipes his sweating palms on his pants.

No one says anything as they salvage what they can and head back to their camp. Bucky retreats to his tent and sighs when he sees Steve following him. He pulls back the flap and nods for Steve to enter.

"You okay?" Steve asks.

"I'm going to say yes," Bucky says slowly. "But you know me better than anyone so you'll see right through my bullshit." He settles down on his bedroll and runs his hand through his hair. His hands are shaking. He clenches them into fists and jams them into his pockets. "What happened?"

"You moved faster than anyone I know, other than me," Steve tells him in a low voice. "One minute you had my six, the next you were blasting that guy into oblivion."

Bucky swallows against the lump in his throat. Tries to push his stomach back down where it belongs. "I guess old habits die hard," he says. His voice is forced. His grin stretches his face tight. He's going to snap and he doesn't know why. He remembers the buzzing and the rush of fire in his veins whenever Zola tested things on him, remembers how everything slowed down, how everything was too bright and too sharply defined, how he could hear everything and nothing all at once.

Steve is watching him, concern written all over his face and Bucky's not sure if he should laugh or not. He's always been concerned about Steve; and now that Steve is Captain America and can hold his own in a fight-more than hold his own, he is a fucking fight-he's concerned for Bucky. The role reversal is kind of funny, and maybe a little scary.

He clears his throat. "Do you know what they did to you? Like, really know," he asks, just barely above a whisper.

Steve nods. "They explained everything."

"Would you have done it even if they didn't?"

This time Steve hesitates. "I… want to say yes," he says. "They were going to give me a chance I wouldn't have had otherwise. And I knew it was a chance going in; I knew there were no guarantees."

"What if they made you do it?" Bucky asks. "What if you didn't want it?"

"I don't know," Steve says. He looks down at his hands. "So much of my own life has never been in my control. I guess if I'd been forced into it, it wouldn't have been any different than anything else. At least I got to choose, regardless of what the outcome was."

Bucky bits his lip because he doesn't trust himself to speak. He keeps trying to remember that moment of preternatural clarity and speed, but can only recall the twitching legs and the ash pile that were a person. And he remembers back to Azzano, when he first saw that weaponry in action, and decided he didn't want to be unmade like that.

He's no better than Hydra.

"Steve. Don't let me touch one of those fucking things ever again," he says in a shaking voice.

"Bucky-"

"Steve, please," Bucky says, and something about the look in his eyes makes Steve agree.

Later that night when the fires have died down to embers and the guys have passed out, Bucky is still awake. He can hear the occasional wolf howl from far in the woods and he feels his chest swelling. He rolls over and howls into the pillow but no sound comes out.


	7. During After

_Chapter 7: During; After_

Steve is as good as his word and doesn't let Bucky touch another Hydra weapon. They've stormed and infiltrated bases and interrupted supply lines, and even though Steve is the one calling the shots, he still manages to look out for Bucky and keep him from losing his cool again.

For his part, Bucky's not sure how he feels about this role reversal. It's kind of funny, the way Steve's looking out for him now. No one says anything, but Bucky feels eyes crawling over him and fire in his veins every so often. He has to blame Zola; whatever he injected into him, or the combination of those things, is fucking with his system. He just wants the war to be over. For Zola and Schmidt to be dead, for Hitler to be dead, for the Axis to surrender. He wants to go back to Brooklyn and retire quietly.

He settles for Schmidt's private brandy reserves out of a flask in his hip pocket. It's good, but the worst part is he has trouble getting drunk now, too. Nothing takes the edge off. He's got too much energy buzzing inside of him. Some nights in camp he and Steve spar and the guys bet on them. Bucky still can't take Steve down, but he can at least dodge Steve's hits and sometimes feels like he can see them coming.

"You didn't learn those moves in that Brooklyn gym," Steve says after their most recent fight. The guys are divvying up their bets, and Steve is actually breathing hard even though he once again knocked Bucky down for the count. The last time Bucky saw Steve winded after a fight was when they encountered the Red Skull during their escape from the Austria facility. Bucky shrugs. "Maybe when this is over we can get Stark to do some tests," he ventures. "Maybe he can figure it out."

"When this is over." Bucky pushes his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. He leans back and looks at the night sky. His breath makes plumes of steam in the chilly night air. The stars are bright against the blackness. He never knew there could be so many stars, not until he was out to sea sailing for England and there was nothing at night but the flatness of the water and the velvet of the sky. It makes him feel tiny, a speck of dust in the grand scheme of things. For so long it's been nothing but war. "You really think this will end."

"I have to believe it will," Steve says. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out his compass. He flips it open. A photo of Peggy Carter has been cut out and stuck inside. "Not going to give me a hard time about her?" Steve asks with a slight grin. "The war's made you pretty serious."

"We all need some reason to keep fighting," Bucky tells him. "And if Peggy's your reason, who am I to give you shit for it?"

"What's your reason?" Steve asks, still staring at the picture of Peggy.

Bucky bites down on his lip, deep in thought. Why _does_ he keep going? He doesn't have someone like Steve has Peggy. He didn't make Connie any promises when he left because he knew he wouldn't be able to keep them. To some degree he knows he was fighting because Steve wanted it so badly, and couldn't be part of it; he was fighting for the both of them. But now that Steve's fighting his own fight, what keeps Bucky going?

"I didn't think I would survive this," he finally tells Steve. "So I guess proving myself wrong, that's what keeps me going. Whatever universal beings are betting against me, I'm going to beat the odds."

Steve drops a heavy hand on Bucky's shoulder and squeezes. "End of the line?"

"End of the line."

They're in France, making their way back to England. Their intel suggests that there's at least one more Hydra base other than this one, but it wasn't marked on any maps that Steve saw, and none of the Commandos knows where their labor was shipping out to. None of the Hydra operatives they've interrogated knows anything of value. They're outwitting Schmidt at every step, but the Red Skull still has that one trump card up his sleeve.

It's broad daylight out; their other strikes have been at night, so Hydra's getting wise to them and they have to change their tactics. Jacques and Gabe man the wireless; Jacques presses the headphones to his ears and whispers to Gabe, who translates to Steve. "Four guards on the wall, two at the door. Shift change is in fifteen minutes," Gabe mutters.

"Positions," Steve says simply. Falsworth, Jim, and Dum Dum check their knives and side arms. Gabe and Jacques pull out the the Hydra guns they've been wielding since the rescue from Austria. Bucky looks away. "You alright being my eyes up high?" Steve asks him, one hand on his forearm as they all move toward their positions.

Bucky grips the strap of his sniper rifle and nods. "I think I'd rather take this one slow and steady," he tells Steve, only after the others have left them. "And no, I don't want to talk about it after. I don't know what Zola was trying to do to me, and the only thing that matters is I survived." He forces a smile. "I've got your back, punk. Stop worrying about me."

Steve nods and heads down the hill toward his position.

Bucky scales a steep rock, his fingers easily finding purchase. He spots handholds with little effort, and it's easy to pull himself up onto the mossy ledge. He's still breathing easily when he settles on his stomach and assembles his rifle stand.

It doesn't take long for the familiar ache to settle between his shoulder blades and for his left eye to water from being squeezed shut. He keeps his breathing even and wills his body to remain motionless but for the slight movements of his head and arms and the rifle barrel. He hears a bird whistle in the silence. It's a quail, and Bucky only knows this because Jim told them that, and that this type of quail isn't found in Europe.

He smiles slightly. It's his signal.

Five long, pointed, shining rounds are lined up to his right, ready for reload.

He scans with the scope and the first guard at the door goes down. One on the wall takes a knife to the throat. Steve bursts into the fray, all red, white and blue righteous fury. Bucky can't help but grin more widely. Steve always has to prove himself. Even now, when he doesn't have to, Steve seems to need to prove himself more than ever. Maybe it's for Peggy's sake, maybe it's for himself.

Motion on the upper decks of the facility catches Bucky's eye. More Hydra soldiers have come out of an upper exit that they weren't aware of. He doesn't think, just aims and squeezes the trigger. First one Hydra soldier falls dead. Two more come out. He reaches for his bullets, loads, aims, squeezes, takes them out without pity or prejudice. He's not firing a sniper rifle anymore: the rifle is part of him, an extension of his body. Even when he has to reach for more bullets his hand knows right where to go and what to do. He hardly has to think.

Time slips away and when he runs out of bullets he slings the sniper rifle over his shoulder and readies his pistol. He grabs the nearest tree branch and swings down without thinking. Heights never bothered him, but he knew to at least be cautious. This… he's not himself. He's moving through the twigs and leaves and branches, seeing everything as a blur of green and brown and gray. He hears the _rat tat tat_ of gunfire and the high-pitched whine of blue-light-energy Hydra weapons and the clang of Steve's vibranium shield as it ricochets off the walls.

He slips into the facility and scours the offices, picking up files and folders and blueprints and stuffing them into his satchel while the others work to secure the building. He hears everything, is aware of every shifting shadow as he works. The Hydra soldier who attempts to sneak up on him doesn't have a chance as Bucky spins around and drives his palm up and into the guy's nose. He makes a strangled gasp and crumples on the floor, dead, his nose driven up into his brain. Bucky's hands shake after that, but he gathers what intel he can before ghosting out of the complex. He whistles a bird call when he's out past the treeline, and moments later thunderous explosions rock the forest.

All Bucky can do is wait at the rendezvous point, breathing heavily and clenching his still-shaking hands into fists. _Why did I do that?_ He wonders.

 _How did I do that?_

* * *

Bucky finds Steve sitting on a rocky ledge overlooking the still-burning Hydra complex later, when the shaking has stopped and he feels more like himself again. Something about the heat of battle flips a switch in his body and his brain. He hates it, he's terrified of losing himself to it, but he doesn't know what to do about it. He still remembers what he asked Steve as they ran from Zola's lab: "Is it permanent?" And Steve had said, "So far." That was nearly a year ago, and Steve hasn't changed. Well, maybe gotten harder and grimmer, but war does that. Bucky is beginning to fear that this is his new normal, that this will be permanent for him as well.

The flames turn the night sky a hellish orange, but the air is cool and smells like pine. "Falsworth found Schmidt's private stash before he torched the place," Bucky says, sitting next to Steve and handing him a bottle of brandy. He uncorks his own bottle and inhales the rich aroma before taking a sip. It doesn't burn going down; more like a pleasant stream of warmth, calming after the day they've had. "Whatcha thinking?"

Steve's helmet and mask sit off to his side and his face is smudged with ash and streaked with sweat. His sandy blond hair sticks up at random angles, like a baby bird's feathers. His eyes are weary as they reflect the firelight. "You ever think about after, Buck?" He glances over. Bucky shrugs and takes another sip. "After all this is over. After the war, if we live that long."

"Is this a test?" Bucky asks with a grin that Steve doesn't return. He sighs. Steve's the only one he can be truly honest with. With the other guys he grins and jokes and fights as hard and fast as they do. They're brothers in arms. But he and Steve… they're brothers. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. Every day." _Especially now that I'm so messed up_. "I'm guessing you do to?" Steve's nod confirms it. "So what does Captain America want to do after this is all over?" he asks.

It's Steve's turn to shrug, and he finally takes a long pull from his brandy bottle. "All I ever wanted to do was serve my country, and now I am. I don't know what I'd do otherwise."

"General America sounds pretty good," Bucky suggests and Steve sort of smiles. There's more on his mind. There always is when he's this melancholy. "But… you want something else?"

This was the last of the Hydra factories on the map. The allies are pushing back and holding the lines. After could very much become a reality. "I don't know," Steve says. Maybe I shouldn't think so far in the future. Maybe I'll just start with asking Peggy for a dance." He does smile, really smile, when he says this.

"Think she's got a friend for me?" Bucky asks with a grin. "A cute redhead? Someone to settle down with. Have a couple cute kids and tell them Pop and Uncle Steve's old war stories, maybe." He rubs the back of his neck. It's nice to be talking about something other than Hydra, and he _has_ thought about after. They all have. After isn't a certainty, not with the jobs they're doing, but thinking about it gets him up in the morning. Thinking about a future where he's not making sure his guns are in working order before stepping out the door, where he's not sniping enemies or following orders. Where he's just Bucky Barnes again.

"Stark seems to think he might have work for me when this is done," Bucky ventures after a moment of silence stretches on too long. "I could work for him, get myself set up pretty nice. Wouldn't that be something? Working for Howard Stark?" The prospect of spending his days working at a desk or in a lab changing the world alongside Stark is actually pretty enticing. He takes a deep drink and kind of wishes he'd just get drunk already. Thinking about a hopeful future shouldn't be this depressing.

"I think you'd work great with Stark," Steve says. He stares at the bottle. It's good brandy, but there's not much point in drinking it if neither of them can get drunk. "Maybe he could help you figure out…"

Bucky sighs. He knew it would come to this. Every time Steve looks at him with that concerned shadow across his face Bucky winces internally. Steve shouldn't have to worry about him; Bucky can take care of himself. Even if he is twitchier than a rabbit these days. "Don't, Steve. I've thought about it over and over, and I figure if the worst side effect is that I can't get drunk anymore, I really don't give a shit what Zola did to me." It's a lie. He does care, he hates moving faster than he means to, seeing more than he wants to, hearing more than he plans to. "And I _really_ don't want to remember all the details," he says a bit more quietly. Sometimes in his nightmares he sees the flash of light on a long needle, feels the pinch of said needle in his neck and wakes up sweating and gasping. Sometimes he dreams of Zola's grin and the glint of his glasses. "You're pretty much my brother, Steve, but this just isn't something that I want to revisit. Even with you." Bucky drains the bottle in a few gulps and throws it out into the night. It lands somewhere, a faint tinkle of glass in the evening quiet.

"Sorry, Buck. I won't bring it up again," Steve says, and he means it, even if it's going to drive Steve crazy never asking about it, especially when he can see how much it's bothering Bucky. Captain America can't lie if his life depends on it. "Here, you need this more than I do." He hands Bucky his half finished bottle. Bucky downs the rest of that one and heaves it out into the forest, too. "I think it'd be great if Stark had a job for you. And if you got that redhead."

"Yeah, well, we gotta get out of this first," Bucky says, staring out into the flaming night. "Then maybe we can think about after."

"We will, Buck. Til the end of the line, remember?" Steve asks, getting up. He offers Bucky his hand, and after a moment Bucky takes it and gets up as well.

Steve can't lie, and he's the most stubborn bastard Bucky will ever know. When he says they'll make it, Bucky believes him, and it makes it easier to keep thinking about an after.

They head back to their camp where the rest of the guys are standing around, talking excitedly. They've been celebrating; bottles of Schmidt's brandy litter the clearing. "Good news, Cap," Dum Dum says with a grin. He takes a swig of brandy. "Word came in from Phillips and Carter."

At the mention of Peggy Carter's name Steve blushes in the firelight. Bucky sincerely hopes that the 'after' Steve hopes for becomes a reality. God knows the guy could use a lucky break after a lifetime of otherwise shitty luck. And while becoming Captain America has been a good break, it's come with a lot of crazy risks.

"They intercepted some intel back at headquarters," Gabe tells them. "There's a Hydra train departing and heading through the Alps. Probably headed here," he says and everyone laughs. "We can intercept them."

"What's on the train?" Steve asks. Always the strategist, always weighing the odds.

"Not what. Who."

Dum Dum looks right at Bucky. "We have it on good authority that Zola's on that train."

A chill flows through Bucky and that sense of seeing too much, feeling too much all at once overwhelms him. Is this what Steve feels like, all amped up on super soldier serum? Maybe he'll ask him after. But right now all he can think as they prepare for extraction is that just maybe, once they have Zola in custody, they can give him a taste of his own medicine.


	8. The End of the Line

_Chapter 8: The End of the Line_

Flurries of snow flutter down, insignificant against the spiky mountains that pierce the clouds. The drop down is dizzying, and Bucky's stomach flips when he realizes that the mountains reach even higher than where he's standing. Even the skyscrapers in Manhattan don't stretch upward like this. Heights have never bothered him much; but this? This is the edge of forever.

"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?" Bucky asks. He looks up. Much better than looking down.

"Yeah, and I threw up."

Steve threw up at least three or four times that night. Bucky kept telling him he didn't have to ride the coaster, but Steve insisted he did. All four times. "This is payback, isn't it," Bucky tells him.

Steve grins, squinting in the cold. "Now why would I do that?" he asks.

The others are bundled up: gloves, thick coats, hats. Steve doesn't seem to feel the cold, no more than he feels any other physical discomfort anyway, with his enhanced physique. Bucky's a little chilly and that worries him because he should be frozen to the bone. But thoughts of Zola make his blood run hot.

Gabe and Jacques listen to the radio. Jacques squints and Gabe stares ahead, concentrating. "Confirmation: Zola's definitely on that train," he said at last, his breath steaming in the freezing air when he sighs in relief.

They have a ten second window in which to zipline down to the train. Strike fast, strike hard, strike where no one else can or will go: that's what the Howling Commandos have done since their inception. "Any longer than ten seconds and we're bugs on a windshield," Steve says. Bucky's seen bugs splattered against the windshield. His father used to punish him when he was a kid by making him clean the bugs off the car during the summers. He used to borrow the car and hope his father didn't notice a splattered fly or two when he got back. He swallows against the lump in his throat when he thinks about being one of those bugs.

"Better get moving, bugs!" Dum Dum calls out cheerily, slapping Steve and Bucky on the shoulder.

"Mind the gap," Falsworth says, one eyebrow raised as he stared out over the chasm they'll have to cross to get to the train tracks.

Steve nods once before grabbing the bars and leaping off the precipice, jetting down toward the tracks. Bucky doesn't think, just follows suit. He focuses on Steve's back, a few yards down the line. He can't look down; can't look up or ahead because he'll seize up. He has to trust that his hands still clutch the bars, that the wind cutting his face means he's still on the zipline and not plummeting into the jagged chasm below.

The train is in sight, a black metal snake running on the same blue light that powers all of Hydra's weaponry. Steve lets go, and for one moment Bucky thinks that he will indeed splatter all over the tinted windshield of the train; but Steve lands atop the train and remains crouched down, looking back and up. Bucky sees the wall of mountain coming at him. He hears the rush of wind and the roar of the train. He looks down and sees the emptiness below, and then the black metal roof of a train car, and he lets go.

A fraction of a second of weightlessness in the air. He holds his breath.

Solid metal under his boots.

A _thunk_ a little further down tells him that Gabe has landed as well.

He lets out his breath in a relieved sigh. Phase one, check. It's probably the riskiest part of the plan. Everything else should be easy from here on out.

Bucky and Steve infiltrate the train through a roof hatch while Gabe works his way up to the front of the train. Bucky and Steve are easily the fastest and strongest of the Commandos, and they fight side by side the way some people dance. It falls to them to distract the contingent of Hydra soldiers on board while Gabe intercepts Zola.

Back in Brooklyn, anyone who messed with Steve knew they'd have to face Bucky eventually; and that did save Steve's ass a few times. Since they've been fighting Hydra together, they've been a formidable team. Someone at Hydra knows this, and as they stalk through the dimly lit train cars, stocked with weapons and parts for God knows what, a door remotely slides shut between them.

As soon as the door hisses shut in front of him, Bucky tenses. Steve wheels around and stares at Bucky through the thick glass; his blue eyes widen and he motions for Bucky to look behind him, even as he bangs on the door and tries to pull it open.

Bucky spins around and dives behind a stack of crates just as a burst of vibrant light hits the door, where he was just standing. His heart thuds against his chest and it's hard to get a good breath in as adrenalin and fear strangle him. His pulse throbs in his ears. In his mind he sees twitching legs and bodies reduced to ash and _that was almost him._

He hears the weapon charging again. He can't go anywhere, he's trapped like a rat in a cage. He leans out and fires once at the guy, but another burst of energy volleys toward him. Bucky swears and huddles into the corner, clutching his gun to his chest. All the crazy, foolhardy missions he's run with Steve and the Howling Commandos, and it ends like this? Trapped in a corner with a Hydra grunt- _a fucking grunt,_ not even one of their top guys-bearing down on him?

Bucky glances up and sees Steve at the window. Steve meets Bucky's eyes and nods. Til the end of the line. They both trust that Gabe's on it. Just do their jobs, keep the grunts busy.

He's bait. Steve is bait. Bucky nearly laughs aloud at that but manages to keep quiet. Then he almost laughs again, because what does it matter how quiet he keeps? The guy knows he's in here.

He hears the _click_ of the door and glances back at Steve, who nods again. Bucky holds his breath and jumps up, shooting at the Hydra soldier as Steve pushes the door open just in time for his shield to catch the blue ball of light. But the shield is vibranium, which doesn't absorb anything, and the light ricochets off the shield and blasts a gaping hole in the side of the train car. The surprised soldier screams as the force of the blast knocks him off balance, right out of the train and into icy oblivion.

Bucky winces as he thinks about what kind of a fall that must be. "Had him on the ropes," he tells Steve, who just shakes his head and laughs.

But there's no rest for the weary, and they're doing their job quite well, because more Hydra grunts are coming. "Steve get down!" Bucky yells, just as another burst of light illuminates the train car.

Steve gets his shield up just enough to deflect the light once more, but it knocks him off balance and he falls over, the shield clattering against the floor. The grunt levels his weapon at Steve.

The battlefield rage inside of Bucky stirs and wakes. All he can see is the guy with the weapon about to blast Steve into oblivion. Bucky grabs Steve's shield; it's lighter than it looks. He holds it in front of him as he advances on the guy, firing his pistol.

And then the guy gets one more shot off before Bucky's bullet hits home in the center of his head.

The force of the blast is unlike anything Bucky's ever felt, lifting him off his feet. And suddenly everything is cold, colder than he's ever been, and he's hanging on for all he's worth, feet flying out behind him and he's thinking too fast, seeing too much, to be nauseous or scared.

"Bucky!" Steve yells, face appearing. "Hold on!"

As if he could do anything else.

"Grab my hand!" Steve shouts. He's gripping the metal railing, edging out on a thin ridge of metal with one foot, while the other stays planted on the train itself-as if that will make any difference.

Bucky can hardly hear him over the rush of wind in his ears, but he sees Steve's outstretched hand. He bites his lip and starts sliding first one hand, then another, closer to Steve. Just get to Steve. The metal groans and his heart skips. Just get to Steve. Focus on Steve's fingertips, reaching out. _You've been on the ropes before, pal, and you made it,_ he thinks. _You've beaten the odds before, Buck. You've beaten worse than this. Just get to Steve._

The metal groans again, loud even over the rush of wind.

Bucky stretches out his arm, eyes locked on Steve's fingers, close, so close, getting closer and the train is rumbling and the wind is roaring and the metal bends and screams and snaps and Steve is screaming his name but he's so far away. He focuses on Steve's fingers, but they're so far away, too far away to ever reach, and maybe he's the one screaming now, but it's suddenly so quiet other than the sound of his own voice, and even then he stops screaming because no one will hear him.

It's all gray and white, snowflakes and cold, and a blur of gray and white as he falls forever.

He always knew the odds were against him from the beginning. He thought knowing this would make the inevitable end easier.

It doesn't.

This is the end of the line.


	9. Nine

_Nine_

Death is cold. Numbing, permeating cold. It's colorless and silent. But it also hurts, and it shouldn't, because death is the end.

He blinks and the colorless is actually gray, shades of gray blurred and sloping into each other. The cold is real: it's wet and pierces into him like a thousand needles. The gray is actually clouds and rocks and mountains sloping down, and white and gray snow cradling him on a hard ground.

The pain is real, too. The cold numbs some of it, but the cold is painful. Death shouldn't hurt.

But he's not dead, even though he should be. The fall felt endless and he can't remember when it ended, when he landed, why he's not dead and why he's staring up into gray silence and why it hurts so much.

He closes his eyes. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can actually die. It would be better than freezing to death and rotting, forgotten at the bottom of this ravine. He doesn't even know where he is, where and how far he fell. No one else will, either. The odds always _were_ against him.

He floats in and out of a haze of snowy, icy pain and waits to die. The silence should be frightening but after the whistling wind and roaring train and thundering pulse it's welcome. There's only the whisper of snowflakes and the beat of his heart. _I can handle this. I can be happy like this,_ he thinks and it's good to think but he also wishes he'd stop thinking and give into the odds already. _You won, universe. You won._

The cold seeps in. The silence wraps around him. Sometimes it hurts, sometimes he's numb, he just keeps waiting.

Then there are shadows hovering over him and now he's pretty sure he's actually dying, and thank God, because it was taking long enough, and he wonders if dying will still feel cold, and then there isn't cold, but fiery pain throbbing through his whole body, and he's screaming and someone is dragging him through the snow by the back of his coat; and now that his head's up some, he can see a trail of blood in the snow, bright red on his left side, and it's because his arm is gone just above his elbow.

He wants to scream and he wants to cry and he wants to curse because he actually wanted to die, was finally ready to die and somehow, _somefuckinghow_ … he's beaten the odds.

 _Again._

He will always beat the odds, no matter how much he wants to finally lose, and if it ever does end, it will be with a fight.

That's the one thing he is certain of, even as faceless figures drag him off into yet more uncertainty, the trail of blood growing ever longer behind him.


End file.
